Chapter 7 #2
An elderly man who happened to be nearest to me sprang to his feet.
He gave a twinkly smile as he offered out his hand.
I didn’t love shaking hands with strangers, but he seemed so eager, I hadn’t the heart to refuse.
To be fair, from his neatly cropped hair and silk shirt right down to gleaming shoes, he was immaculate.
Considering my sweaty, dishevelled, muddy state, he should have been thinking twice about touching me.
‘Donovan. Founder and reluctant chairperson of Friends Wanted.’
He pointed to a poster on the wall. A poster I’d seen before, in my local gym, and then on my own phone after I’d mocked anyone desperate enough to advertise for friends.
‘This is Tucker’s?’
‘Yes.’ Donovan nodded enthusiastically. ‘Congratulations on finding the right place.’
‘Um.’ While not wanting to seem rude, I also didn’t want to feed the misconception that I was remotely interested in his club. ‘I was really on my way to get some carrot cake from the bakery, and then the storm hit. After a near miss with a bin, I thought it best not to risk going any further.’
‘Well, Merry serves a very delectable carrot cake. Plus, here you can have a cup of tea to go with it, or freshly brewed coffee, if you’d prefer. One carrot cake, please, Merry!’
‘I’ll get it.’ A gangly young man pushed back his chair and moved around the table, before coming to a sudden stop about six inches inside my personal space.
He had a mass of white-blonde hair topped with a Santa hat, a scrubby moustache and large, pale blue eyes that stared right into mine.
He wore a T-shirt featuring Robin Hood carrying a sack of Christmas presents and also had a sunflower lanyard, letting people know he had a hidden disability.
‘Hello, I’m Joel Tucker and this is my café. One carrot cake coming up.’ He stopped, eyes darting to the ceiling. ‘Or, rather, one slice of carrot cake. You can’t eat the whole cake!’
Then he burst into sniggers, one hand stopping the Santa hat from slipping.
‘Joel,’ Merry said, loudly. ‘Have you finished taking this customer’s order?’
Joel turned towards Merry – now cuddling Ernest in the towel like a baby – working hard to smother his smile. ‘Sorry, Mum.’
She gave an encouraging nod. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Is that everything I can help you with today?’ Joel asked, quickly. ‘Or would you like something else?’
‘I’d love a hot drink. Do you sell cappuccinos?’
The 1980s décor was giving off instant coffee vibes, so I didn’t want to assume.
‘Cappuccino, latte, americano, espresso.’ Joel paused, four fingers held aloft, his eyes scrunched in concentration until he broke into another grin of satisfaction. ‘And flat white!’
‘A cappuccino, please.’
‘Would you like chocolate sprinkles on the top?’
I thought about that for a second. It was rare enough for me to have coffee.
‘I would. Thank you, Joel.’
‘You’re very welcome. Please take a seat and I’ll bring it right over.’
It now seemed impossible to sit at one of the six empty tables.
If this had been three weeks ago, I’d have offered everyone a polite smile, then taken my dog back, chosen a chair facing the window, pulled out my phone and deliberately ignored these uncannily cheerful strangers, making it obvious I was not interested in making friends.
However, for over a week I’d interacted with no one apart from the doctor and delivery drivers. For the first time in decades, I felt a twinge of longing for a conversation. Companionship.
I wrestled with this strange, new vulnerability. Surely Alex Nixon could not be considering joining Friends Wanted?
Even if I could admit that perhaps it was time to think about making some connections, the whole point of friends was that we had things in common.
Fixer Alex’s advice would be to join a regular class at my gym or find a book group.
Sign up for a cookery course or a women-in-business network.
The last thing she’d have suggested was to try a club run by an old man so lonely he put up posters.
While still hovering awkwardly, Joel singing ‘Here comes Santa Claus’ as he made my coffee, a door at the back of the room opened and the most bizarre thing yet happened.
‘Dr Will!’ I blurted, because I wasn’t quite myself.
The man, who was indeed the person who had been so lovely to me in the doctors, prompting me to think about him far too often since, pulled his eyebrows together in a frown.
‘Um, no,’ he said slowly, as if talking to someone with advanced dementia. ‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ I gabbled, because he looked, if possible, even more gorgeous than I remembered, wearing a blue and white checked shirt and faded jeans.
He was holding a bunch of candles, presumably in case the power went out.
‘We met before. At the doctors. I was in a Christmas Tree dress. But I didn’t catch your surname, so… Will from the doctors, Doctor Will…’
I pulled off my hat and unwound the scarf still obscuring the bottom of my face.
‘Alex!’ He took a step closer, eyes widening in surprise. ‘I didn’t recognise you. Sorry.’
‘Well, I did look a bit different then.’ An obscenely expensive hair and make-up artist compared to drowned rat, mud splatters and no make-up different.
‘What are you doing here?’ He caught himself, as if realising that could sound rude. (It didn’t. It was a perfectly reasonable question given the circumstances. Why on earth would TV’s Winning at Life Alex Nixon be here, in this run-down café, at a club for people with no friends?)
‘I mean, how are you?’ He stopped again, expression now horrified as he stepped closer and bent his head so no one else could hear.
‘Sorry. I’m not asking how you are because of, you know, last time I saw you.
Or what happened after that. Can I rephrase that as a friendly, polite, non-specific to you or your situation how are you? ’
‘I’m cold, soaking wet and really looking forward to Joel’s cappuccino,’ I said, putting him out of his misery.
How was I?
Literally a gazillion times better, now he was here.